Every morning, I return to the place where I was thrown into the
ground and buried, a death's rattle in my throat. Every night, the
stump of my arm aches, impossibly. Every night, I pace the countryside
and I wait for the man who buried me to come and pay his respects. I
stray as far as I dare- as close to the fine, old house where I came as
a young bride, only to turn back at the gate. I had loved that house,
with its beautiful music and elegant parties. I had loved my Golden Arm
and the way it glinted in the sunlight. Most of all, I had loved Colum,
who had told me I was beautiful and had smiled at me when I put the arm
away and showed him all I was without it.
Every night, I curse the day I set eyes on him.
Every night, I return to that beautiful, gnarled old gate that I now
hate as much as I'd loved and I howl, gripping the aged metal with one
hand. He never sees me, but he can feel me there. "Colum!" I screech
into the rainy night, teeth bared. The shutters shake and the flowers
in the garden shrivel, the leaves curling into a dull, dead brown.
"Colum! Send me your new lady wife!" The hounds locked away in the
stables begin to growl, snarl, and bark. I hate them, too. I hate
everyone in this house and I want my golden arm back. "Colum! I've come
for you! Whoreson! Son of Satan! Bastard!"
He reeks of cowardice when he comes to the front door, flinging it open
and holding his struggling, fair-haired wife before him as if she might
serve as some kind of protection. She doesn't do much more than kick a
little, whimper, and look as if she might swoon. She has gold at her
neck, matching bracelets at her perfect, white arms. There are fine
rings on her fingers. There are fine rings on his own. I stare at his
fingers and imagine what it might be like to bite them off and swallow
down the gold on them.
"I don't want to go out there!" I can hear the fear in her voice, the
near hysteria that's driven her so close to fainting. She's little more
than a child, unable to get the words out without having to stop for
another breath, she's so close to sobbing. It draws the words out and I
laugh suddenly at the sound of it. "Whhhhhat've you done? Whhhhy does
this keep happening?"
"Colum! Take off your gold!" I release the gate, grab at the stump of
my arm and pace back and forth, my motions sharp and lurching. "Tell
her whhhhaaat you've done!"
I've never hated a man the way I hate Colum O'Roarke, who told me I was
beautiful and then cracked open my skull with my own arm. "Tell her
hhhhhow you buried me!" I mock her panic, I mock the fear in his eyes
as he shoves her down the steps, wheeling and screeching. He can't even
manage to say anything. All he does is scrabble back
inside and leave her to me, as if I could cross that gate. Faithless
man. Murderer. I go still and point after him, ignoring the way the
bitch on the ground scrambles to her feet and back up the stone stairs,
pounding at the door.
"First her," I tell the door and the man hiding behind it. "Then you."
Author's Note: "First Her, Then You" is based on an English fairy
tale, though I chose to change the setting to Ireland to fit with the
shared graveyard motif. "The Golden Arm" was written by Joseph Jacobs.
This fairy tale has appeared in other forms across various cultures, as
well. In some cases, the golden arm were two silver dollars a
gravedigger stole from a woman waiting to be buried. Memories of that
version of the fairy tale are what prompted me to rewrite "The Golden
Arm." I liked the idea of a vengeful wife returning to the home where
she'd lived. Rather than detailing what happened to her golden arm
specifically, I chose to imply that it had been melted down into
jewelry for Colum and his new wife. Why does she have a golden arm?
It's just one of those fairy tale things that pop up from time to time,
but it must have made her quite a catch before she married Colum! I
like to think that Colum will
eventually wind up going mad and ending his own life to escape the
haunting by his first wife, whom he married and murdered for her arm of
gold. Another thing that was not implicitly stated in the story was
that he buried her while she was still alive- believing her to be dead
from the blow inflicted by her own prosthetic arm.
"The Golden Arm" from English Fairy Tales, by Joseph Jacobs (1890). SurLaLune
Fairy Tales.
